COMPANY TOWN

SOLAR TEN

San Diego: Navy town.
A union local there went down.
Summer: 1975,
Solar thinks that it can drive
Up profits if they paid us less--
Doing more for less. I guess
That's how they'd like to see it work--
We bust our butt to please some jerk.

Our contract, June that year, was up;
Some dusted off the old tin cup;
The rest of us decided more
Was due us. We walked out the door.
Makers of the Mars turbine
Had voted for a picket line.

The day we struck the scabs arrived.
We'd been set up. Prospects dived.
The strike would not be short and sweet.
But even still we owned the street.
Solar got a busline, though,
To drive the scabs they hired through
Our picket lines. No easy go.
They had our jobs. We let them through.
From their seats inside the bus,
None of them would look at us.

Someone found out Solar placed
Ads for scabs a month before.
On the day we struck we faced
Busloads of them. Them and more.
Brought in to assemble parts
That we had made. It broke our hearts
To see how all our overtime
Had turned out to be such a crime.

The ads for jobs that Solar bought
Had small print reading, "Oops, forgot.
Going on, there's some dispute
About a contract. Nothing big."
The ads said if they'd substitute,
When it was through they'd have a gig.

California, here we come
Hummed the scabs who're coming from
As far way as Portland, Maine.
Zippity do dah. Zip to gain.
Crossing picket lines to build
The turbines, keeping orders filled.
We almost saw our Local die,
Unemployment figures high.

Strike vote 96 per cent.
My God. Solar's president,
O. Morris Sievert, sent our mates
A letter saying, gosh, he hates
To see it when someone's misled.
"Can't trust what the union's said.
By the way, while you're on strike,
Think about what it be like:
How you going to ever make
The monthly payments? Big mistake."

There're times you can't deny your spine.
We all walked the picket line.
Local 685 was hot.
Solar's contract offered squat.

It's funny when a scab confronts
Big picket lines. They'd cross it once.
Those who crossed next day could boast
They'd busted strikes from coast to coast.

But it worked, line worked so well,
That Solar hurt and we could tell.
Across the table, losing it,
While all we had to lose was shit.

Solar knew they couldn't last
Unless they thought up something fast.
Exaggerate,
Intimidate,
Solar tried it all;
Each day reports
To cops and courts
Had us up against the wall.
Morning SWAT and evening news--
Either way you're going to lose.

The captain of the picket line
Was interviewed, refused to whine--
A Mexican who had no couth
Who told the news the ugly truth.
They pushed him and he pushed them back.
He knew the score and they kept track.

Vidiots were filming us.
They came up with numerous
Instances where they could show
The judge how far some stooped so low.
Windows broken, punches thrown.
Everything we did was shown.

The courts sent down a ruling we
Could picket Solars gates with three
Union members. If we had more
They'd jail us--so either, or.
The picket line had grown a lot.
Injunctions first, they sent back SWAT--
The picket captain went to jail,
The Mexican would never bail.

One-hundred twenty-three days long:
They never thought we'd be that strong.
But they had tricks and legal moves
And everything that money proves.
They would wear us down until
Our lawyers bitched about the bill,
And better halves had had their fill.
Some lost homes and some their car.
Some divorced, apart, and far.

In the union was a red--
That's what everybody said.
Name I can't remember now
But he was good explaining how
This strike was one that could be won
If we knew what was to be done.

Hey! What is it with this guy?
Half way through, the FBI
Paid a visit to or Local.
Someone down here getting vocal?
Our reps were scared and went along--
Reds were Nazis, right? Or wrong?

They set this commie up one night.
They swore in court they had it right.
The D.A. said it all made sense:
A buslot and a chainlink fence--
All belonging to the line
That Solar used to bus in scabs--
Had a witness. Witness blabs.
Buslot guard. And someone ran
Past him heading for a van.
Saw him once more when he passed
By him again and moving fast.

The guard who saw him said he found
A Union matchbook on the ground
Beneath a bus and dynamite
That had a fuse that wouldn't light.
We all knew the guy was dead.
Besides, the guy's a fucking red.

Brother sentenced five to life.
Judge and jury left his wife
And family stunned. But no one cried--
Everyone in court had lied.
But in the hall his father broke,
But standing. Standing like an oak.

Company fired our ten best.
Their final offer gave the rest
Of us a contract worse than weak:
If only all we made could speak.

The contract was a contract which
Was bound to make stockholders rich.
Raised our wages by a dime
With mandatory overtime;
Job descriptions changed to suit
The company who wants to shoot
Seniority down and bury it--
Solar couldn't take our shit.

Break a rule and you get fired.
Company breaks one, lawyer's hired
To paper ours until ours quits
Giving Solar uppity fits.
Grievance process gutted so
That when they want to let you go
It takes so long to get back in
You get convinced you'll never win.

The strike hurt Solar more than us;
None of us had much to lose;
Ten of us were fired plus
The local lost 4 months of dues.
The other nine of ten who lost
Their jobs were lucky--all it cost
Them was employment in this town--
Blacklist. That's for getting down.

The radicals were blamed for being
Full of shit or too extreme.
The Union? Got off almost free
If 90 years seniority,
And the strike fund that it cost
Is your idea of nothing lost.

The strike was long as any ever
San Diego had, and never
Had so many gone on strike
As our Local. Had to like
What happened next. Solar's sold.
I.H. said it had to fold.

Stockholders hadn't liked it much,
All the profits lost and such.
Sold out cheap to Catepillar.
All we had to say was, killer.
Catepillar's big and all
But come big and the bigger you fall.

123 DAYS

Union striking for some say
About conditions, time and pay:
"Get off the bus,
Don't scab on us,"
We hooted at the scabs.
"Stand united,
Undivided."
Scabs even came in taxi cabs.
They passed us by,
We'd catch their eye,
They always understood
That they'd been bought
And now they're caught
Stealing someone's livelihood.

7 a.m. would see us drift
Down before the morning shift.
By the time the scabs arrive
Down at the gate, they had to drive
Through a hundred, more or less,
Angry strikers. And I'd guess
The only scabs who lasted boast
Of busting strikes from coast to coast.

But the line
Was working fine,
It just took some commotion
To make it so
Scabs wouldn't go
Through without a notion
Of what could happen to them when
They crossed the picket line again.

We broke no laws, we tried not to--
Spiders did some damage, true;
And cars would leave with knee-high dings.
But hey, that's just one of those things--
There's always someone in a crowd
Who's not content to just get loud.

It was open hunting season
On us strikers--that's the reason
That our own elected leaders
Excused themselves as heavy bleeders
And never made it to the line.
Except one day we saw them shine
The time that TV's Channel Eight
Was at the assembly plant's main gate.
Otherwise you'd find them home,
Putting polish to the chrome.
These union leaders were a click--
Hung out with guys like Sherm and Dick.

We'd carry signs and sometimes chant.
The picket line shut down the plant:
In a hotel room downtown,
Management was going down
Trying to negotiate
Against the pickets at the gate.
Management gave up a bit
Because the pickets wouldn't quit.
The company wouldn't either:
They were stalling for a breather.

We got everyone's attention:
Negotiating stops.
T.V. news built up the tension,
Likewise, so did cops.

Agitating,
Demonstrating
We turned the scabs around.
We walked a loop
While Super-Snoop,
Wired up for sound,
Took his pictures to compile
Evidence to build a file
He could show the judge and say,
"You're looking at an average day.
They've been doing this, and worse."
The judge enjoins us to disperse.

In a 15 page injunction,
Judge told us our line couldn't function
Legally, that is, till we
Cut our pickets down to three.
Someone brought the order down,
Company sent it on by clown.
At our feet injunctions drop.
Cameras roll from some rooftop.

Remember Sherm and Dick? They came
Down and said they'd couldn't blame
Us doing what we do, but they,
The click, that is, would have to say
They can't defend us if we're busted
For something like contempt of court.
Dick, he got us more disgusted--
Told us we had his support
But he was siding with the click:
Thank you Sperm and good night, Dick.

We got pictured as a mob,
Courts told SWAT to do it's job.
They came down to clear us out,
Out for blood, we had no doubt.
My knees shook bad, first time I saw
The way it was against the law.
SWAT pulled up two blocks away--
What a way to start your day,
Watching them pull out their gear
They use to change the atmosphere.

The picket captain went ahead.
Now the courts were seeing red.
The picket captain: busted, jailed
Along with six or seven others.
I won't say the union bailed,
They got a lawyer for their brothers,
But they put up a lame defense--
Doubtful of their innocense.
The click in court apologized
For the rowdy faction.
The so-called rowdies weren't surprised
By the court's reaction.

The time they served was just enough
To give the click time to finesse
A contract smart enough to bluff
The membership. T.V. and press
Never explained the contract passed
Was worse than what we'd gotten last.
And everybody who'd been fired
Had no chance to get rehired.
The click could then be confident--
Court's ruling to their benefit.
Then Sherm and Dick joined management
Which goes to show the click ain't shit.

One hundred twenty-three days we stood
Against the corporate greed and would
Have lasted longer but got sold out
To some who know what it's about:
They fooled us once but we've got news,
They won't again, next time they lose.

CONFUSION BLUES

HEAVY REVY HEGEMONY

Always heard the way in which
Your worries end is strike it rich.
I believe, but I don't think
That I'll be seeing colored ink
The shade of cash--enough to make
My worries just a piece of cake.
The only other thing I hear
That works to make blues disappear
Is something I hear more and more--
And sounds like what I'm looking for:
Communism. So I'm sold
From everything that I've been told.
But I don't need the cocky sass
Coming from a certain class
Of people thinking they can teach
Me all about it when they preach
And pound their books like Bible sharks,
Except this time it's Karl Marx.
A heavy revy gives me hell
Until a second one might yell
The first's an opportunist lying.
Gets a little mystifying.
Nothing like I've ever seen--
Heavy revies getting mean.
Rumors spread the Judas kiss--
No one that kiss wouldn't miss.
Soon becomes the main attraction,
Watching faction fighting faction.
Why they drawing lines so fine?
What's their story? They know mine?
I heard somewhere factions fade
As fast as history's being made.

BUTTERFLIES

No poet's perfect metaphor
Can start a revolution.
The butterfly we all adore
Defeats no institution:
Draws no closer to the goal
Of breaking free of brittle ties.
(Even gnawing saws the hole
That we squeeze through to open skies.)
But metaphors make us aware
Enough to see that wings don't tear.

ACADEMICS

Work is pulling heavy books
From racks of steel shelves,
And hauling books to well-lit nooks
Where they enrich themselves:
Picking nuggets from the grit
Though most go in for open-pit.

They're deadly with their criticism,
They're sure of where they're going;
They set aside their cynicism
As they become all-knowing--
They clue us in to how it works;
Let us know where danger lurks.

Bright and charming. Far above
Getting down and physical.
When it comes to work and love,
Things start becoming mystical.
They stand alone. They sit and judge.
Their anger's all a private grudge.

ARMCHAIR

Typewriter talking tough;
The keys are striking glib;
Ten fingers strut their stuff
And margin bells ad-lib.
Every word spelled out explains:
We the muscle, it the brains.

We could lose but their career
Would brighten if we disappear.

No one minds it quite as much
As when there's not a face
To match with wisdom saying such
Things like, if our pace
Went a little faster we
Could overthrow the bourgeoisie.

COST OF LIVING ADJUSTMENT

Deadlier than flying bolas:
Blindside clip
Below the hip--
No protection from the COLA's.

More loops than the gauchos bolas:
Dealing double binding COLA's:
Winding us up in its grip--
No vacation. What a trip.

Harder angles than the bolas:
Banking that our balls will slip
Behind the sneaky eight-ball COLA's:
Business seven, workers, zip.

JOB DESCRIPTION

You stick with one job 30 years,
See your share of angry tears;
The blues you sing
From what you feel
Are sounding clearer every day,
And tears that sting
You don't conceal.
Thirty years taught you the way
To blink them back, or let them slide
And never lose a drop of pride.

MODERN SPY

Left pretensions
Allow inventions
Turn Left into a fool:
They're followed by
The glassy eye
That's watching them act cool,
Acting out the revolution,
Become the f. b. eye's solution.

ULTRA

They're OK but who can tell?
You wouldn't want to follow them
And wind up in a six-by cell
Or planted rootless, fragile stem
Waiting out a long dry spell
So all that's left to say's, "Amen."
Everything gone straight to hell:
You won't follow them again.

THEM AND US

Every boss has made me sick.
Remedies are needed quick.
Losing hope,
Hard to cope
Between the carrot and the stick.

Working off the same old jig,
Worked myself out of my gig--
Part bin's full,
Every lull
Is leaving me a grave to dig.

All day long, a marathon,
We complain and bosses yawn.
Going to slug
One ugly mug
When it's time to get it on.

Need a raise but they say nope,
Fog things up and make me grope.
Another trick
They think is slick,
Bosses thinking I'm a dope.

Everybody on the floor
Talks a different kind of war.
Some tip-toe
But we all know
How to even up the score.

Credit goes to capital
For everything we let it pull.
Porky pig
Has made it big--
Got away with cock and bull.

One day they won't act so smug
And hide behind a hired thug.
Booms are gone,
Sides are drawn,
Porky's grave is nearly dug.

OSHA

When they walked into the shop
Everybody had to stop
To watch them talk with supervisors,
And their foreskin sympathizers
Like the dickhead foremen who
The supers choose to run a crew.
OSHA's big. And bosses freak,
Until they see that OSHA's weak.
OSHA's tough when shops are small,
Sometimes make small business crawl;
When it comes to bigger ones,
OSHA puts away its guns.
For a while, super sweats,
That's as heavy as it gets.
Nothing's done when OSHA's gone.
Remind the boss and watch him yawn.

OPEN SHOP BLUES

Wake up Monday feeling blue--
Blues hang in there all day through.
The job you have might get you by
But sometimes it's not worth the try,
Especially when some funny shit
Comes down to make you want to quit--
Like when foremen make you master
Two machines to finish faster.
Your refusal brings the ace
Dickhead down to put his face
In yours to warn you that he'll bust
You, if you won't, or can't, adjust.
He tells you if you don't know how
They'll find someone who can: Right Now.
He says he'll hire some green-carder
Who would work their tail harder;
Or maybe smuggle someone in,
Or get an alkie juiced on gin
Who doesn't cost as much as you--
For what you're paid, they'll hire two.
You hope they do. You hope they find
Some chump who steals their tight ass blind.

Morning blues hang on at night;
Can't shake them loose with dynamite.
Changes have to come down soon.
They've been walking on the moon,
So why are you stuck in a hole,
Grubbing like a dirty mole?
The boss comes out to watch you dig--
(It's your grave, you greedy pig.)
Boss fulfilling one sure need:
Making sure that you exceed
Your quota from the month before.
Only standard set, is more.
Returning to his coffee pot
He hatches out another plot

To get another reason on
A trouble-maker he wants gone.
Upstairs you can hear him squawk
Because he heard some worker talk
About a union. Hey, fat chance
He'll let the workers here advance.
Workers have the blues for sure,
Blues that have no simple cure.

HOLE

Everyday, the same routine
Beneath the foreman's thumb--
Every day the same machine
Will work on you until you're numb.
The foreman sometimes vents his spleen
On me, I just play dumb.

Dollar falls, I need a raise--
Bosses yawn or laugh;
Less I get the more it pays--
I'm their golden calf.
Hundreds, I produce some days--
They give me less than half.

They'll send a foreman down to time
Me on machines I master.
They call it legal--it's a crime
For making me work faster,
But I'll survive, someday I'll climb
Free from this disaster.

BARNYARD WAGNER

Took it almost as a lark.
What adventure. Wandered far
And wide. But missed the mark.
Revolution: Aimed for Star-
Dom: careless potshots
From clever hotshots
Who shoot from the lip
And spin a good yarn
But couldn't hit
The door of a barn.
Coming to the real thing
They tuck in their ultra-wing
And settle for compelling coups,
Singing through their bourgeois blues.

WORK

You breathe the poison, smoke and dust;
Lungs are trying to adjust.
Some work's hard and takes your breath
Away, or bores you half to death.
Some will leave your hearing ruined,
Scars remind you of a wound;
Routine dulls the edge you had,
Slows you down as joints turn bad.
Veins on legs bulge from the strain.
Callous covers more than pain:
The softest skin you hardly feel,
And pain inside will never heal.
Any way you wear your collar,
Is only done to earn a dollar.

UNION

Union? No? Work's hard to take--
No one gets an even break.
Showing up for what you make:
Wages and what's on the floor--
Strength and you'll be wanting more.

Union? No? What's there to lose?
Those tired Sunday evening blues?
Maybe try some interviews?
Take a day off? Try and find
Another job? You've lost your mind.

Union? No? A union's there,
Fighting back to make it fair;
Striking for a bigger share--
Don't get more by acting meek,
Begging when you're asked to speak.

Union? Yes? And gains are made
Until we never have to trade
Twice the time for which we're paid;
The union then is bound to surge,
To satisfy a vital urge.

COME THE REVOLUTION

Following the overthrow,
To keep from turning back,
Understatement says we'll go
So far as even crack
Whips on corporate ownership:
Little business we can skip.

Changes coming down in stages
Work out every little quirk;
First go profits; next go wages;
Boss and clock and finally work,
As we know it--turns to play--
Every little thing O.K.

That's perfection. Now we form
Ideas by which the way is known:
State ownership is getting warm--
The season communism's sown.
At first it's crude but, what the fuck,
Beats Robin Hood and Friar Tuck.

PETTY-BOURGEOIS BLUES

Heavy revy cocksure style:
You see it as they talk
About what they think's most worthwhile--
It's something done to shock
Us into changing overnight.
Revolution! Outta sight.

Heavy Revies learn it takes
No time at all to be
A spectacle that quickly makes
A wish become reality.
Wake up sure of who you are:
A sucker for a shooting star?

Revolution over-night?
Who they trying to kid?
That idea's stone coprolite
Prehistoric monsters did:
The path of single-minded dreamers;
Moody, mired, brooding schemers.They dream of winning, but they can't lose
Their petty miserable fit of the blues.

BREEDERS

Follow them, you follow phantoms,
Left in spirit, right indeed.
Lightweight stuff of cocky bantams--
A raucous crow is their top speed.
You can tell by how they sound
That every day the sun's spellbound.

Roosting on library shelves
To get their left-wing rap down pat,
Is where they first involve themselves
So they can tell us where it's at.
They demonstrate
And propagate
Sound intellectual knowledge;
They make impressions
With confessions
They're Reds to kids in college.
They have a line
Which they draw fine
To represent improvement;
They get us razzled,
Razzle dazzled,
But who sees any movement?

They're good at getting us together
In hopes we'll dance down stormy weather.
Because they lead us in the dance
They think they'll lead us into war.
Cocky might do for romance--
Past that cocky's got some more
Dues to pay before I start
Letting them get to my heart.

It dawns on them who's got the power,
Those who work in fields or plants
By the bushel, by the hour.
Here they come to teach us chants.
Talking everything they know
At the front gate, right out loud,
They talk about the overthrow
In front of any kind of crowd.

If it's talk that makes a leader,
Then their tongue is dynamite.
But if it's talk that makes a breeder,
They're exposing Left to Right:
Loud in public, tantamount
To being bait, cops keeping count.

Bantams flutter in deep trouble,
Pigs roll in and trouble's double.
But the bantam rooster, hen,
Get away to breed again.